I expect that one day I’ll see purpose in my daily grind. I catch glimpses of it now and then. A spark here. A bond there. Every day feels increasingly futile, though.
Boss lady walks in my room between classes and looks down on me, puzzled at the sketch in progress.
-Sisyphus, I tell her.
-Me, I say to myself as I explain the hell of fruitless labor.
She shakes her head in quiet disgust, threatens an informal evaluation, and walks off.